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ASPHALT 

and  Other  Poems 


ASPHALT 

By  Orrick  Johns 

MUSHROOMS 

By  Alfred  Kreymborg 

THE  BOOK  OF  SELF 
By  James  Oppenheim 

THE  COLLECTED  POEMS 
of  William  H.  Dames 

OTHERS  (1916) 

An  Anthology  of  the  New 
Verse 


ASPHALT 

and   Other   Poems 

By    Orrick    Johns 


New  York  .  Alfred  A.  Knopf  .  Mcmxvii 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


PRINTED    IN    THE   UNITED    STATES   OF    AMERICA 


To  Peggy 


387514 


CONTENTS 

BREAD    i i 
HOME     13 
NEWS     15 
THE  CYNIC     17 
POLITICIANS     19 
BROADWAY    21 
ELECTION     23 
THE  LITTLE  KID    25 
RELIGION     27 
THE  NOVICE    29 
MARRIAGE  A  LA  MODE    31 
HOSPITAL    33 
MOBILISATION     35 
HUNGER    37 

COUNTRY  RHYMES 
THE  HOME  FIRE    41 
LITTLE  THINGS    42 
ENTERTAINING    43 
DIGNITY    45 
THE  LAST  NIGHT    46 
THE  TREE  TOAD    47 


CONTENTS 

THE  HORNS  OF  PEACE    49 
MYSTERIES    50 
THE  MAD  WOMAN    51 
THE  OLD  HOME    52 
THE  DOOR    54 
THE  RIVER  MAN    55 
MOTHERS  AND  CHILDREN    56 
To  A  DEAD  CLASSMATE     58 
THE  INTERPRETER    60 
DILEMMA    61 
THE  DANCE    62 
OLLENDORF'S  WIFE    63 

THE  CITY 

SECOND  AVENUE    67 

THE  LOOM-GIRL    72 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MEN  AND  GOD     73 

FRANCES     75 

THE  WORKER    76 

THE  STRIP  OF  RIVER    77 

GOLD    78 

OLD  YOUTH 

THE  DAUGHTER    81 

SONG  FOR  THE  LITTLE  MISTRESS    82 

THE  MOON'S  BETRAYAL    84 

THE  SILENT  PLACE    86 

THE  MELODY    88 


CONTENTS 

To  J.  S.  P.    89 

I    THE  DEAD  SINGER    89 
II    THE  CORONAL  OF  DUST    91 
THE  LAST  POET    93 
THE  ANSWER    95 

THREE  WOMEN 

QUIESCENCE    99 

E  Poi  VIDI  VENIR  DA  LUNGI  AMORE     101 

SALOME     107 

EBB  SAND  AND  STARS 
EBB  SAND  AND  STARS    1 1 1 


Acknowledgment  is  hereby  made  to  the  editors  of 
Reedy  s  Mirror;  Poetry,  A  Magazine  of  Verse;  The 
Smart  Set;  The  Forum;  The  Poetry  Review;  The 
Poetry  Journal;  and  Contemporary  Verse,  for  permis 
sion  to  reprint  many  of  the  poems  included  in  this  vol 
ume. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


ASPHALT 


BREAD 

DREAD,  is  it  bread? 
••^  Den  go  an'  git  yer  head 

Beaten  inta  jelly  by  de  bulls! 
Dey'll  preach  ta  yer  a  spell, 
An'  ya'll  never  go  ta  hell, 

So  long  as  yer  ain't  tired  o'  bein'  gulls! 

Bread,  bread,  bread, 
Say,  son,  do  you  see  red? 

Say,  sonny,  kin  ya  look  wid  yer  eyes? 
Bread,   bread,   bread, 
An'  a  comrade  lyin'  dead  — 

It's  nothin'  if  ya  listen  ta  their  lies! 

Take  another  pull 

Of  de  bughouse  till  yer  full  — 

You  don't  want  no  thinkin  in  yer  mind ! 
Strain,  strain,  strain, 
But  dontcha  break  de  chain, 

An'  dontcha  let  de  system  git  behind! 
II 


..:"#•  ...2      BREAD 

Bread,  bread,  bread, 
Say,  son,  do  you  see  red  ? 

Say,  sonny,  kin  ya  look  wid  yer  eyes  ? 
Bread,  bread,  bread, 
An'  a  comrade  lyin'  dead  — 

It's  nothin'  if  ya  listen  ta  the ir  lies ! 


Life,  is  it  life? 

Aw,  cut  it  wid  a  knife ! 

Aw,  take  it  out  in  lookin*  at  de  moon ! 
Say,  wot's  de  use  o'  talk? 
Walk,  walk,  walk  — 

Walk,  an'  let  de  bosses  pay  de  tune ! 

Bread,  bread,  bread, 
Say,  son,  do  you  see  red  ? 

Say,  sonny,  kin  ya  look  wid  yer  eyes  ? 
Bread,  bread,  bread, 
An*  a  comrade  lyin'  dead  — 

It's  nothin'  if  ya  listen  ta  their  lies! 


12 


HOME 

HOME?     Say,  wotta  ya  mean,  guy, 
Wotta  ya  tryin'  ta  pass  me  ? 
Home?     Say,  wotta  ya  givin'  me  — 

You  ain't  tryin'  ta  gas  me? 
I  ain't  seen  no  such  a  place  — 
Guess  ya  thought  ya'd  played  de  ace ! 
Home?     Say,  guy,  you  got  a  face, — 
Wotta  ya  mean  by  home  ? 

Home?     Say,  wotta  ya  mean,  guy, 
Wotcha  tryin'  ta  hand  me? 

Home?     I  reckon  any  home 
Wouldn't  a  had  ta  canned  me. 

Say,  guy,  dontcha  make  no  jokes! 

I  got  tired  o'  hearin'  blokes 

Ask  me,  "  Ain'tcha  got  no  folks?  " 
Wotta  ya  mean  by  home  ? 

Home?     Say,  wotta  ya  mean,  guy  — 
Wotcha  slippin'  over? 
13 


HOME 

Home?     Say,  wot's  de  answer,  guy? 

Don't  I  look  in  clover? 
Git  dis  in  yer  little  dome  — 
Sittin'  here  behind  de  foam's 
A  dam  sight  softer  flop  'an  home ! 

Home?    Say,  wotta  ya  mean? 


NEWS 

yOINAL,  Evenin    Joinal! 
Warships  off  de  coast ! 
Give  de  guy  his  change,  Sam  — 

Mister,  here's  your  Post. 
Gawd,  but  it's  a'  gittin'  cold, — 
Say,  is  all  dem  Masses  sold? 
Guess  dat  sheet  has  took  a  hold- 
Freezin',  ain't  it  most? 

Joinal,  Evenin    Joinal! 

Sam,  let's  have  a  Mail. 
Yessir,  just  one  Masses  left  — 

(Dat  guy's  got  de  kale!) 
Git  me,  bo, —  I  need  a  drink ! 
Smell  dat  rotten  sewer  stink  ?  — 
Say,  wot  t'ell  ya  doin',  gink, 

Cantcha  make  a  sale? 

Joinal,  Evenin    Joinal! 

Latest  from  de  Street! 
Say,  dat  dame's  a  peacherine  — 

Like  ta  see  her  eat! 
15 


NEWS 

Jesus  Aitch,  here,  wot's  about? 
You  git  on  an*  shut  yer  mout'! 
Masses?    Masses  all  sold  out  — 
Sam,  d'ya  read  dat  sheet? 


16 


THE  CYNIC 

YA  quit  yer  job  ?     I  gotcha  — 
I  seen  de  way  it  works : 
Ya  buys  some  rags  'at's  flossy 

An'  ya  travels  wid  de  clerks ; 
Ya  t'inks  yer  feelin'  lonesome 

An'  ya'd  like  ta  have  a  home  — 
So  ya  goes  an*  gits  a  license 
Wid  a  solid  ivory  dome ! 

About  de  end  o'  fall 
De  first  begins  ta  squall  — 
Say,  it  ain't  no  use  at  all 
Ta  holler  den ! 

Ya  quit  yer  job  ?     I  gotcha  — 
A  job  fer  life's  de  stuff: 

Ya  t'inks  ya  got  a  feller 
Wot's  a  di'mond  in  de  rough; 

Say,  di'monds  turns  out  phoney, 
But  ya  can't  bring  no  complaint ; 
17 


THE  CYNIC 

An'  raisin'  kids  fer  hunger? 
You  kin  do  it,  kid  —  I  ain't! 

Yer  Eve  before  de  Fall 
Till  de  kids  begins  ta  squall 
Say,  it  ain't  no  use  at  all 
Ta  holler  den! 


18 


POLITICIANS 

DE  way  dem  fellers  jaws 
Of  de  State,  an'  Gawd,  an'  Laws, 
Dey'd  give  ya  room  ta  t'ink  dey  was  de  t'ree; 
Ya'd  say  dere  breath  was  legal, 
An'  dat  dey  was  Gawd's  own  ekal, 

An'  dey  wasn't  born  somehow  like  you  an'  me! 

It's  talk,  talk,  talk, 

An'  den  dey  walks  de  chalk, 

But  it's  never  quite  de  same  as  wot  they  do! 
It's  "  feller  men  an'  friends  " — 
But  believe  me,  bo,  dat  ends ! 

When  dey  gits  alone  it's  me  a'  pluckin'  you ! 

When  dem  guys  is  on  dere  legs 
Say,  bo,  dey'll  walk  on  eggs  — 

Ya'd  t'ink  dere  folks  had  growed  'em  under  glass! 
But  believe  me,  tain't  de  same 
When  dere  back  into  de  game  — 

It's  grab  de  stuff,  an'  do  it  rough,  an'  don't  let  nut- 
tin'  pass! 

19 


POLITICIANS 

It's  talk,  talk,  talk, 

An'  den  dey  walks  de  chalk, 

But  it's  never  quite  de  same  as  wot  they  do! 
It's  "  feller  men  an'  friends  "— 
But  believe  me,  bo,  dat  ends ! 

When  dey  gits  alone  it's  me  a'  pluckin'  you ! 

Say,  let  'em  t'row  dat  bluff 
If  dey  ain't  got  cards  enuff, 

Let  'em  shuffle  Gawd  an'  glory  in  de  pack! 
If  ya  know,  ya'll  understand 
Dat  when  any  guy's  a  man  — 

Well,  bo,  dere  ain't  much  change  a'comin'  back! 

It's  talk,  talk,  talk, 

An'  den  dey  walks  de  chalk, 

But  it's  never  quite  de  same  as  wot  they  do! 
It's  "  feller  men  an'  friends  "— 
But  believe  me,  bo,  dat  ends ! 

When  dey  gits  alone  it's  me  a'  pluckin'  you ! 


20 


BROADWAY 

SAY,  dat  street's  de  real  stuff, 
She  dolls  herself  wid  art ; 
Gee,  but  she  don't  t'row  no  bluff  — 
If  she  ain't  got  no  heart! 

In  de  sun  she  blinks, 
In  de  rain  she  drinks  — 

Say,  she's  de  dame  ta  love! 
She's  dere,  an'  bo's, 
Anyt'ing  goes  — 

But  she  gives  a  guy  de  shove ! 

Dat  ol*  gal's  de  dancin'  kid, 

She  dances  twenty  mile, 
She  never  tells  ya  wot  ya've  did, 

An'  she  never  draws  yer  bile! 

She's  slim  an'  neat, 
She  rests  yer  feet, 

21 


BROADWAY 

She  treats  ya  on  de  square ! 
But  it's  down  ya  go 
If  she  loves  ya,  bo  — 

It's  down  ya  go,  fer  fair! 


22 


ELECTION 

GIT  de  glad  hand,  sonny? 
Stick  ya  out  a  mit  ? 
Slip  ya  'cross  a  dollar  ?  — 

Take  de  stuff  an'  git! 
Don't  go  raise  no  holler  — 

Golly,  dat's  yer  pay! 
Git  in  line  an'  foller, 
It's  election  day ! 

Votin'  an'  aVotin', 
Dames  wants  it  too! 

Wot's  it  ever  done  f er  us  ? 
Say,  ain't  it  true! 

Money's  comin'  easy, 
Votes  is  hard  ta  git  — 

Ain't  no  use  how  ya  votes 
It  lets  dem  fellers  sit! 

See  dem  blues  a'totin'  guns 
Underneat*  dere  coat? 
23 


ELECTION 

Dat's  de  stuff,  de  real  stuff, 
De  stuff  behind  de  vote! 

Votin'  an'  a'votin', 
Dames  wants  it  too! 

Wot's  it  ever  done  fer  us? 
Say,  ain't  it  true! 


THE  LITTLE  KID 

I  RECKON  dat  feller  Molly's  got 
(Say,  he  was  fresh,  th'  god  dam  sot!) 
I  reckon  dat  rich  guy  Molly's  got 

Ain't  wort'  enough  fer  me! 
I  reckon  dey  gotta  pass  a  smile, 
An'  be  a  real  guy  fer  a  while  — 
I  reckon  all  dat  feller's  pile 
Ain't  enough  fer  me! 

Gee,  but  I  got  a  feed  to-night, 
I  got  a  guy  dat  acted  white! 
Gee,  but  I  got  a  time  to-night 

An*  dat's  de  style  fer  me! 
He  wasn't  dere  in  de  way  o'  cash, 
But  say,  he  had  some  kind  o'  flash ! 
Gee,  dat  guy  had  a  lovely  mash 

If  he  only  slipped  me  t'ree! 

Gotta  have  rent  er  beat  dis  shack, 
Hope  dat  Sad'day  night  ain't  slack  — 
25 


THE  LITTLE  KID 

But  gee,  I  wish  dat  guy'd  come  back 

An'  take  me  on  a  spree! 
Gawd,  dis  room  is  hellish  hot! 
Maybe  I'm  easy,  maybe  not, 
But  I  reckon  dat  rich  guy  Molly's  got 

Ain't  wort'  enough  f er  me ! 


RELIGION 

SINGIN'  hymns  an'  singin'  hymns, 
Howlin'  fit  ta  burst, 
Bawlin'  t'ings  up  at  de  Lord, 

But  gee,  dat  ain't  de  worst! 
Come  right  up  an'  brace  a  gink  — 
Guess  I  got  another  think! 
Dis  prayin'-business  makes  a  stink  — 
It  got  me,  bo,  at  first. 

Singin'  hymns  an'  singin'  hymns, 

Screechin'  fit  ta  croak; 
Wake  a  guy  on  Sunday! 

(Say,  dat's  a  joke!) 
I  don't  want  no  prayin',  bo, 
Ain't  partic'lar  where  I  go  — 
Slip  me  just  five  c's  er  so 

Fer  coffee  an'  a  smoke. 

Singin'  hymns  an'  singin'  hymns, 
Bellerin'  every  night; 
27 


RELIGION 

Guess  dem  folks'll  see  de  Lord, 

An*  dat'll  be  some  sight ! 
Shoutin'  prayers  an*  takin'  dough, 
Say,  you  got  it  easy,  bo  — 
Slip  a  guy  a  jit  .  .  .  huh,  no? 
Gee,  dis  Christ's  a  tight! 


28 


THE  NOVICE 

I  BEEN  in  an'  I  been  out  — 
Pass  dat  can  o'  beer! 
Ain't  no  t'ing  ta  rave  about, 

Neither  way  ya  steer. 
I  been  in  an*  I  been  out  — 
Say,  you  young  un',  try  de  spout! 
Ain't  no  t'ing  dat  I  could  tout, 
Neither  way  ya  go,  bo. 

I  been  in  an*  I  been  out  — 
Honest  —  wot's  de  diff? 

Any  guy  dat  works,  bo  — 
Say,  dat  guy's  a  stiff! 

Stealin'  ain't  so  rare  a  sin ! 

But  dey  ain't  never  gittin'  in ! 

An'  blokes  likes  us  is  up  agin  it 
Either  way  wid  'em,  bo ! 

I  been  in  an'  I  been  out, 
Say,  I'll  git  in  some  more! 
29 


THE  NOVICE 

Ain't  no  other  trick,  bo, 
Once  de  bulls  is  sore. 
Out  ya  starve  an'  in  ya  eat, 
In's  a  bed  an'  out's  de  street, 
Out  yer  broke  an'  in  dey  treat! 
Take  it  either  way,  bo. 


MARRIAGE  A  LA  MODE 

GEE,  de  papers  makes  a  show 
Of  a  gal  dat  marries  dough  — 
An'  wot's  de  use  in  advertisin'  dat! 
If  ya  gotta  make  yer  bed 
Wid  de  same  guy  till  yer  dead  — 

Say!  it  seems  ta  me  ya'd  wanta  keep  it  underneat' 
yer  hat! 

Marryin'  an1  marryin' — 

Wot's  de  big  idee? 
Fer  mine  I  travels  private 

Wid  a  guy  dat  knows  I'm  free! 
Marryin'  an'  marryin', 

Tyin'  up  fer  life  — 
Say,  bo !  I  hope  ta  Gawd  you  never 

Treat  me  like  a  wife! 

Sometimes  ya  see  a  feller 

Wot  ya  know  ain't  got  no  yeller, 

An'  he  asks  ya  if  yer  game  ta  blow  de  night. 
Ya  sticks  him  out  a  hand 


MARRIAGE  A  LA  MODE 

An'  he's  gotcha  till  he's  canned  — 

Dat's  marryin'  an'  marryin',  an'  den  yer  married 
right! 

Marryin'  an'  marryin' — 

Wot's  de  big  idee? 
Fer  mine  I  travels  private 

Wid  a  guy  dat  knows  I'm  free! 
Marryin'  an'  marryin', 

Tyin'  up  fer  life  — 
Say,  bo !  I  hope  ta  Gawd  you  never 

Treat  me  like  a  wife ! 


HOSPITAL 

IWANTA  sit  around  a  little  table, 
I  wanta  see  de  jaws  a'waggin'  hard, — 
Gee,  I  wish  ta  Gawd  dat  I  was  able 
Ta  git  away  an'  chatter  wid  a  pard ! 

Aw,  de  sickness,  dat  ain't  much, 
When  yer  dippy  like  a  crutch, 
But  de  t'ing  dat  beats  de  dutch 
Is  gittin'  well! 

I  wanta  hear  de  screeches  an'  de  scrunches, 
De  skwankin'  an'  de  squealin'  of  de  trains ; 

I  wanta  find  a  pal  an'  bum  my  lunches  — 
Gee,  doc,  dis  quiet's  gittin'  in  my  brains ! 

Aw,  de  sickness,  dat  ain't  much, 
When  yer  dippy  like  a  crutch, 
But  de  t'ing  dat  beats  de  dutch 
Is  gittin'  well ! 
33 


HOSPITAL 

Say,  doc,  just  put  me  wise  to  sump'n  queer  — 
I  wasn't  wort'  yer  savin'  from  de  dead  — 

But  Gawd !  if  I  got  hungry  out  of  here, 
Dey'd  send  me  up  de  road  f er  lif tin'  bread ! 

Aw,  de  sickness,  dat  ain't  much, 
When  yer  dippy  like  a  crutch, 
But  de  t'ing  dat  beats  de  dutch 
Is  gittin'  well ! 


34 


MOBILISATION 

DERE  goin'  out  fer  glory, — 
Say,  ya  gotta  stop  an'  look ! 
It's  a  sight  dat  grips  a  feller 

Till  he  wants  ta  take  de  hook! 
Dere  goin'  out  fer  glory 

An'  dey'll  find  it  in  de  mud  — 
Cause  some  un  started  sump'n, 
An'  de  bosses,  dey  want  blood ! 

Gawd,  de  youth  dem  fellers'  got 

In  dere  breasts ! 
An'  de  hair  dem  fellers'  got 

On  dere  chests! 
Say,  it's  gran'  ta  see  de  show 
Wid  de  guns  a'  shinin'  so  — 
But  wot  ta  hell  dere  goin'  fer  twon't  do  ta 
know! 

Dere  goin'  out  fer  glory 
'Cause  de  flag  is  feelin'  mad, 
35 


MOBILISATION 

It's  hangin'  kinda  limplike 

An'  dey  say  its  pulse  is  bad. 
Dere  goin'  out  fer  glory  — 
An'  dat's  a  kind  o'  prize 
Wot  ya'll  find  is  sump'n  difFrent 

When  it  bats  ya  in  de  eyes ! 

Gawd,  de  youth  dem  fellers'  got 

In  dere  breasts! 
An'  de  hair  dem  fellers'  got 

On  dere  chests! 
Say,  it's  gran'  ta  see  de  show 
Wid  de  guns  a'shinin'  so  — 
But  wot  ta  hell  dere  goin'  fer  twon't  do  ta 
know! 


HUNGER 

I  WONDER  if  de  guys 
Wot's   been   grabbin'   all  de  pies, 
An'  dividin'  up  de  good  t'ings  since  de  flood  — 
Say,  I  wonder  if  dey  knows 
Wot  it's  like  ta  hunger,  bo's  — 

Ta  hunger  till  yer  knock-kneed  an'  yer  eyes  are 
seein'  blood! 

Hunger,  is  it  hunger? 

It's  hunger  widout  end; 
It's  hunger  fer  a  decent  word 

An'  hunger  fer  a  friend; 
It's  hunger  fer  a  gal  ya  like 

Er  hunger  fer  yer  bread  — 
Gawd  o'mighty  help  yer,  bo, 

It's  hunger  till  yer  dead. 

De  t'ing  dat  makes  ya  sore 
Is  wot  dey  takes  ya  for  — 

Dey  fills  yer  gut  ta  keep  ya  actin'  mild! 
But  Gawd !     I  guess  yer  need 

37 


HUNGER 

Is  sump'n  more  dan  feed !  — 

It's  sump'n  stickin'  in  yer  throat,  it's  sump'n  drives 
ya  wild ! 

Hunger,  is  it  hunger? 

It's  hunger  widout  end; 
It's  hunger  fer  a  decent  word 

An'  hunger  fer  a  friend; 
It's  hunger  fer  a  gal  ya  like 

Er  hunger  fer  yer  bread  — 
Gawd  o'mighty  help  yer,  bo, 

It's  hunger  till  yer  dead. 


COUNTRY  RHYMES 


THE  HOME  FIRE 

THE  home  fire's  a  lazy  fire 
And  wood  it  should  be, 
And  the  thoughts  said  about  it 
Begin  with  we. 

The  home  fire's  a  cold  fire 
Time  may  come,  and  dead ; 

Then  there's  the  road  to  go 
And  the  stranger's  bed. 


LITTLE  THINGS 

THERE'S  nothing  very  beautiful  and  nothing  very 
gay 

About  the  rush  of  faces  in  the  town  by  day, 
But  a  light  tan  cow  in  a  pale  green  mead, 
That  is  very  beautiful,  beautiful  indeed  .  .  . 
And  the  soft  March  wind  and  the  low  March  mist 
Are  better  than  kisses  in  a  dark  street  kissed  .  .  . 
The  fragrance  of  the  forest  when  it  wakes  at  dawn, 
The  fragrance  of  a  trim  green  village  lawn, 
The  hearing  of  the  murmur  of  the  rain  at  play  — 
These  things  are  beautiful,  beautiful  as  day! 
And  I  shan't  stand  waiting  for  love  or  scorn 
When  the  feast  is  laid  for  a  day  new-born  .  .  . 
Oh,  better  let  the  little  things  I  loved  when  little 
Return  when  the  heart  finds  the  great  things  brittle; 
And  better  is  a  temple  made  of  bark  and  thong 
Than  a  tall  stone  temple  that  may  stand  too  long. 


ENTERTAINING 

I  WONDER  if  the  high  tree, 
Four  arms  around 
Ever  feels  its  heart 
Beating  in  the  ground. 

I  can  feel  it,  stretched  here, 

Shoulders  in  the  sod, 
And  both  ears  open 

To  sounds  from  God. 

Oh,  the  sun  has  shaken 
The  dirt  beneath  my  soles, 

And  brought  a  wind  from  China 
Singing  round  the  Poles ! 

The  thousand  things  I  want 
Are  gathered  in  a  row 

From  this  spot  of  meadow 
To  the  spring  below.  .  .  . 
43 


ENTERTAINING 

All  the  fun  and  money 
The  world  can  boast 

Have  come  away  to  visit 
Here,  where  I  am  host ! 


44 


DIGNITY 

THE  old  gray  cocks 
Reach  to  your  knees; 
Their  tall  tail  feathers 
Dance  in  the  breeze. 

When  they  stop  to  talk 
They  stretch  still  higher 

And  peck  you  if  you  walk 
Close  to  the  wire. 

The  old  gray  cocks 

Are  prouder  than  a  king, 
And  even  when  they  scratch 

It's  a  dignified  thing. 


45 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

HADN'T  we  better  rise  and  go 
Down  to  the  wood  so  ashen-white? 
And  you  will  give  me  a  kiss  I  know 
Since  this  is  our  last  night. 

I  will  give  you  a  kiss  indeed, 

A  kiss  for  this  and  a  kiss  for  that ! 

And  maybe  a  kiss  to  fill  your  need  — 
So  go  and  get  your  hat. 

This  place  is  best  of  all,  I  think, 

With  the  white  star-blossoms  in  the  grass, 
And  a  whip-poor-will  may  come  to  drink, 

And  never  a  body  pass. 

This  place  is  well  enough,  indeed, 
To  bind  my  soul  and  kill  me  quite, 

For  I  shall  never  again  be  freed 
From  the  kiss  I  give  to-night. 


THE  TREE  TOAD 

A  TINY  bell  the  tree  toad  has, 
I  wonder  if  he  knows 
The  charm  it  is  to  hear  him 
Ringing  as  he  goes. 

He  can't  have  gone  the  journeys 

He  tells  me  to  go  on, 
Here  in  the  darkness 

Of  the  cool,  cropped  lawn. 

He  cannot  know  the  thrill 

Of  the  soft  spring  wind, 
Or  the  wonder  when  you  walk, 

What  will  come  behind. 

He  hasn't  seen  the  places 
I'd  break  my  heart  to  win, 

Nor  heard  the  city  calling 
When  the  cold  comes  in. 
47 


THE  TREE  TOAD 

He  sings  away  contented, 
And  doesn't  leave  his  tree, 

But  he  sets  my  blood  a-going 
Where  his  song  will  never  be. 


THE  HORNS  OF  PEACE 

NO  man's  life  is  open  as  the  houses 
Blindly  he  will  build,  houses  of  a  dream ; 
Where    many    maids    are    running,    clad    in    leather 

blouses, 
Running  with  white  legs  into  a  stream. 

Blow,  blow  the  horns,  clearer  in  the  morning! 

Never  let  the  world  hear,  though  the  music  wake 
Leaves  on  the  ash-tree,  and  rose  set  thorning: 

Let  speech  be  over  and  no  woman  bake. 

The  ash-limbs  are  burdenless,   the  rose  stands  idle, 
A'tremble  with  the  horns,  blowing  far  and  sweet; 

And  even  an  old  man  will  dream  of  a  bridal 
Seeing  what  he  was  when  love  was  in  his  feet. 

Blow,  blow  the  horns,  farther  growing  clearer! 

I  have  seen  my  life  and  love  as  a  cloud 
A  star  will  thrust  a  face  through  coming  nearer.  .  .  . 

Never  let  the  world  hear  a  glad  song  aloud! 


49 


MYSTERIES 

A  DOG  goes  with  you  down  to  a  pond 
And  he  sticks  his  very  nose  in  the  dirtiest  of 

ground, 

Where  you  wouldn't  even  sit  in  the  oldest  of  clothes, 
But  a  dog  will  do  it,  and  why,  God  knows! 

A  boy  grows  up  and  he  lives  in  a  town 

Where  the  prettiest  girls  walk  up  and  down; 

He  looks  at  one  a  little  and  gives  her  a  rose 

And  he's  off  to  cut  his  throat  .  .  .  why,  God  knows! 

A  man  ploughs  ground  and  his  sons  grow  big, 
His  wife  gets  thinner  and  she  needs  a  wig; 
He  has  money  in  the  bank,  in  acres  and  in  rows, 
And  beauty  in  his  looks  .  .  .  why,  God  knows! 


THE  MAD  WOMAN 

OHE  sat  home  long,  the  woman 
^  Who  came  through  our  wood, 
After  years  of  seeing 

But  what  her  window  could  .  .  . 

I  wonder  if  the  wild  eyes 

I  saw  as  she  passed 
Found  beneath  the  river 

What  cleared  their  gaze  at  last. 

I  wonder  if  her  face 

Was  not  a  girl's  again, 
And  if  she  found  the  flowers 

Thick  about  the  glen  ; 

And  if  among  her  thoughts 

So  dark  we  couldn't  see, 
It  only  was  her  reason 

Came  to  make  her  free. 


THE  OLD  HOME 

YOU  would  not  find  an  elm  so  tall 
As  that  one  by  the  drive, 
Nor  a  woman's  body  as  dried  and  small 

As  hers  and  seem  to  thrive; 
And  there  was  a  man  of  stormy  frame 

And  beard  unflecked  with  white 
Who  sat  beside  her  bible-desk 

In  the  lamp's  old-fashioned  light  .  .  . 
And  these  two  had  as  different  hopes 

As  ever  two  alive. 

Somewhere  was  hung  a  girl's  profile, 

Black  with  gold-tinted  hair, 
And  beside  the  polished  Franklin  burner 

Was  a  long-backed  walnut  chair; 
I  had  known  these  things  all  years  ago  — 

Known  them,  and  more  than  all 
A  certain  owl  that  once  had  hooted 

From  •  near  the  milk-house  wall ; 
And  that  dim  room  and  that  whole  house 

Had  a  grave,  unlikely  air. 
52 


THE  OLD  HOME 

I  thought  of  forgotten  and  dismal  sounds 

And  remembered  flawless  days, 
Until  they  fled  back  choking  upon  me 

And  the  lamplight  blurred  to  haze; 
I  felt  the  presences  in  that  room 

As  a  ceremonious  thing  .  .  . 
And  that  small  old  lady  sitting  by 

That  dark  man  listening, 
Smiled  at  him  as  a  bride  who  was  there 

Smiled  at  her  baby's  ways. 

We  visitors,  it  was  the  dead  we  thought  of, 

For  had  one  done  his  will 
In  that  old  house  and  that  old  room 

It  had  shaken  from  the  hill  — 
Roof  and  beam  in  a  rain  of  dust 

Upon  that  gathered  group 
And  only  the  young  feet  would  have  sounded 

Hastening,   from  the  stoop  .  .  . 
So  we,  like  the  memories  of  the  dead, 

Were  courteous  and  still. 


53 


THE  DOOR 

LOVE  is  a  proud  and  gentle  thing,  a  better  thing 
to  own 
Than  all  of  the  wide  impossible  stars  over  the  heavens 

blown, 
And  the  little  gifts  her  hand  gives  are  careless  given 

or  taken, 
And  though  the  whole  great  world  break,  the  heart 

of  her  is  not  shaken  .  .  . 
Love  is  a  viol  in  the  wind,  a  viol  never  stilled, 
And  mine  of  all  is  the  surest  that  ever  God  has  willed ; 
I  shall  speak  to  her  though  she  goes  before  me  into 

the  grave, 
And  though  I  drown  in  the  sea,  herself  shall  laugh 

upon  a  wave; 
And  the  things  that  love  gives  after  shall  be  as  they 

were  before, 
For  life  is  only  a  small  house  .  .  .  and  love  is  an  open 

door. 


54 


THE  RIVER  MAN 

SHORT  and  lean  and  grey  of  eye, 
He'll  sometimes  look  up  at  the  sky 
And  listen  hard  as  if  he  heard 
A  sound  where  you'd  not  hear  a  word! 

He  rather   thinks  he's  satisfied, 
He'd  better  change  before  he  died; 
A  fellow  will  get  in  a  groove, 
It  had  been  best  for  him  to  move  .  .  . 

But  often  when  he's  busiest 
With  stock  and  chickens  and  the  rest  — 
Bringing  the  fuel  and  cutting  ice, 
Or  taking  buckets  to  the  sties, 

Or  pointing  posts,  up  in  the  wood 
Or  other  things  a  farmer  should, 
He'll  stop  clean  off,  and  Lord  knows  why, 
Listen  and  look  up  at  the  sky. 


55 


MOTHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"D  ORN  are  we  of  fire 
••^  And  orderly  desire, 
And  on  that  day 
The  leaves  all  pray 
And  the  stars  all  wait 
By  the  smallest  wooden  gate 
To  listen  to  the  cry 
Of  a  woman  by  and  by. 

And  they  gather  in  the  door  to  see  his  little  feet 
And  go  away  and  whisper  there  are  none  more  sweet ; 
And  they  peep  in  his  eyes  and  laugh  like  a  lord 
To  see  another  human  that  is  not  yet  bored  .  .  . 
Old  men  and  ladies,  they  go  that  way 
And  very,  very  silly  are  the  things  they  say! 

We  are  born  of  woman 
And  they  say  she  is  human 
But  we  very  soon  know 
She  is  more  than  so  ... 

56 


MOTHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

For  we  drink  from  her  cup 
With  the  top  closed  up 
And  no  matter  how  we  press 
It  grows  no  less! 

And  she  sits  by  the  sky  where  the  wind  comes  through 
And  knows  what  we  want  by  the  things  we  do. 
And  the  sound  of  her  voice  is  sweeter  than  her  milk, 
And  the  feel  of  her  face  is  like  smooth  white  silk  .  .  . 
And  a  man  may  be  ninety  with  a  very  long  beard 
And  not  be  any  better  than  his  mother  feared. 


57 


TO  A  DEAD  CLASSMATE 

¥  REMEMBER  going  down  there  first 

•*•     To  that  tawdry  dark  hotel, 

Where  you  kept  a  big  mahogany  paint-box 

And  a  dozen  or  more  French  books ; 
I  remember  how  you  looked  at  me 

With  worried,  suspicious  looks, 
And  curled  your  lip  at  something, 

In  the  pride  you  could  not  quell  .  .  . 
Do  you  ever  hear  me  asking  now 

If  things  with  you  are  well  ? 

All  else  at  college  was  so  little 

When  once  my  labours  won, 
And  I  was  sure  you  were  friends  with  me, 

And  went  to  that  hotel 
Seven  times  a  week  to  that  little  room 

With  the  country-parlour  smell, 
And  talked  of  cities  and  poems 

As  a  thousand  boys  have  done, 
But  as  neither  you  nor  I  had  ever 

Talked  with  any  one. 

58 


TO  A  DEAD  CLASSMATE 

I  remember  hazy  nights 

And  the  columns  white  and  high, 
The  columns  so  beautifully  futile 

Left  from  the  old  burned  hall; 
Like  the  white  arms  of  a  girl  they  held  us 

Who  had  known  no  love  at  all. 
We  lay  and  sent  our  hopes  with  smoke 

Into  the  summer  sky  .  .  . 
Do  you  hear  me  when  I  send  to  you 

A  question  or  a  cry? 

I  remember  how  I  came  from  there  .  .  . 

The  little  dark  hotel, 
And  left  a  promise  of  Paris  with  you 

As  a  girl  might  have  left  a  kiss; 
I  remember  the  corners  I  turned  to  come 

From  there  and  the  years  to  this  — 
I  remember  your  parting  diffidence, 

The  pride  you  could  not  quell  .  .  . 
Have  you  ever  since  heard  me  asking 

If  things  with  you  were  well? 


59 


THE  INTERPRETER 

IN  the  very  early  morning  when  the  light  was  low 
She  got  all  together  and  she  went  like  snow, 
Like  snow  in  the  springtime  on  a  sunny  hill, 
And  we  were  only  frightened  and  can't  think  still. 

We  can't  think  quite  that  the  katydids  and  frogs 
And  the  little  crying  chickens  and  the  little  grunting 

hogs, 

And  the  other  living  things  that  she  spoke  for  to  us 
Have  nothing  more  to  tell  her  since  it  happened  thus. 

She  never  is  around  for  any  one  to  touch, 
But  of  ecstasy  and  longing  she  too  knew  much  .  .  . 
And  always  when  any  one  has  time  to  call  his  own 
She  will  come  and  be  beside  him  as  quiet  as  a  stone. 


60 


DILEMMA 

WHAT  though  the  moon  should  come 
With  a  blinding  glow, 
And  the  stars  have  a  game 
On  the  wood's  edge  .  .  . 
A  man  would  have  to  still 
Cut  and  weed  and  sow, 
And  lay  a  white  line 
When  he  plants  a  hedge. 

What  though  God 

With  a  great  sound  of  rain 
Came  to  talk  of  violets 

And  things  people  do  ... 
I  would  have  to  labour 

And  dig  with  my  brain 
Still  to  get  a  truth 

Out  of  all  words  new. 


61 


THE  DANCE 

THERE'S    three    dances    going    on    three    hills 
around 

And  twelve  fellows  out  of  here  and  forty  from  below  ; 
And  the  girls,  where  they  come  from  how  can  any 

know? 
But  I'll  be  answer  for  it  where  one  of  them  is  bound. 


The  long  way's  the  big  road  going  by  the  spur 
And  the  path  through  the  woods  is  straighter  than  a 

line ; 

I'll  go  by  the  big  road  to  show  them  what  is  mine, 
But  the  dark  path  coming  is  the  way  to  take  with  her. 

There's  something  like  a  pebble  will  be  getting  in  her 

shoe, 

And  something  like  a  snake  will  be  lying  there  to  fear, 
And  maybe  it  will  rain  and  maybe  it  will  clear 
But   I'll  be  bringing  Lizzie  home  the  whole  night 

through. 


62 


OLLENDORF'S  WIFE 

DAY  after  day  all  day  I've  seen  her  in  the  fields, 
Bending  over  the  brown  beds  in  which  she  has 

worked 

For  twenty  years  and  more. 
There  is  no  look  of  love  for  it  in  her  face 
Nor  any  memory  of  her  brief  lost  grace  of   years 

ago.  .  .  . 

Only  she  turns  to  the  Earth,  day  after  day, 
As  to  her  last  child, 
Or  they  will  seem 

Like  equal  enemies,  who  are  drawn  together 
By  knowledge  greater  than  the  common 
Of  each  other's  best. 

At  a  certain  hour 

When  the  light  is  a  perfect  synthesis 

Of  calm  beauty, 

And  the  gathering  veils  of  purple 

Are  pierced  by  rosy  mists, 

She  stands  as  straight  as  she  is  able 

63 


OLLENDORFS  WIFE 

And  walks  home, 

Unforgettably  a  part 

Of  that  sudden  mysterious  girlhood 

Of  the  world. 


64 


THE  CITY 


SECOND  AVENUE 

IN  gutter  and  on  side-walk  swells 
The  strange,  the  alien  disarray, 
Flung  from  the  Continental  hells, 
From  Eastern  dark  to  Western  day. 

They  pass  where  once  the  armies  passed 
Who  stained  with  splendid  blood  the  land 

But  bloody  paths  grow  hard  with  years, 
And  bloody  fields  grow  rich  and  grand.  . 

Are  you,  O  motley  multitude, 

Descendants  of  the  squandered  dead, 

Who  honoured  courage  more  than  creeds 
And  fought  for  better  things  than  bread  ? 

The  eternal  twilight  of  the  street 
Drives  you  to  madness  like  a  wine, 

To  bastioned  gates  with  bleeding  feet, 
To  walls  that  curse  and  locks  that  shine. 


SECOND  AVENUE 

O  curious  poison!     Yellow  fruit! 

Bright  lotos  that  enchains  the  sense! 
That  gives  the  maiden  to  the  brute, 

And  power  gives  to  impotence! 

That  gives  to  man  his  blindest  wish 
Of  flaccid  ease  and  flaming  lust !  — 

For  gold  you  have  grown  feverish 
And  song  has  fallen  into  dust.  .  .  . 

The  gorgeous  canvas  of  the  morn, 
The  sprinkled  gaiety  of  grass, 

The  sunlight  dripping  from  the  corn, 
The  stars  that  hold  high-vestured  mass, 

The  shattered  grandeur  of  the  hills, 
The  little  leaping,  lovely  ways 

Of  children,  or  what  beauty  spills 

In  summer  greens  and  autumn  greys  — 

These  are  not  gained  by  any  toil 

Of  groping  hands  that  plead  and  plod, 

But  are  the  unimpoverished  spoil 

Poured  from  the  bursting  stores  of  God. 

How  often  when  the  spring  is  near 
Has  one  of  you  forgot  his  cares 
68 


SECOND  AVENUE 

And  gone,  the  Bridegroom  of  the  year, 
Filling  with  song  the  streets  and  stairs? 

How  often  does  the  wild-bloom  smell 
Over  the  mountained  city  reach 

To  hold  the  tawny  boys  in  spell 
Or  wake  the  aching  girls  to  speech  ? 

The  clouds  that  drift  across  the  sea 
And  drift  across  the  jagged  line 

Of  mist-enshrouded  masonry, 

Hast  thou  forgotten  these  are  thine? 

That  drift  across  the  jagged  line, 

Which  you,  O  people,  reared  and  built 

To  be  a  temple  and  a  shrine 
For  gods  of  iron  and  of  gilt  .  .  . 

Aye,  these  are  thine  to  heal  thy  heart, 
To  give  thee  back  the  thrill  of  Youth, 

To  seek  therein  the  gold  of  Art, 
And  seek  the  broken  shapes  of  Truth. 

O  vaulting  walls  that  drive  the  wind 
To  feats  of  such  fantastic  fun, 

You  make  men  dull,  you  make  men  blind, 
You  mar  the  ritual  of  the  sun : 


SECOND  AVENUE 

The  dramas  of  the  dawn  you  mar, 
The  streaming  tapestries  of  dusk  — 

For  fruit  of  life  the  visions  are 

And  things  are  fibre  of  the  husk  .  .  . 

Lo,  these  who  all  unthinking  strive 
To  ports  they  do  not  dimly  guess  — 

Can  any  arts  among  them  thrive  ? 
Can  they  be  bred  to  loveliness? 

By  strange  design  and  veiled  pretext 
God's  will  upon  the  race  is  told, 

For  one  year  does  not  know  the  next 
And  youthful  still,  the  world  grows  old. 

Yet  maybe  now  there  passes  here 

In  reverential  dream,  a  boy, 
Whose  voice  shall  rise  another  year 

And  rouse  the  sleeping  lords  of  joy  .  .  . 

Beat  on,  ye  thousand  thousand  feet, 
Beat  on  through  unreturning  ways ; 

Not  mine  to  say  whereto  ye  beat, 
Not  mine  to  scorn  you  or  to  praise; 

The  world  has  seen  your  shining  bands 
Thrown  westward  binding  sea  to  sea, 
70 


SECOND  AVENUE 

And  heard  your  champing  hammers  drum 
The  music  of  your  deity; 

The  world  has  seen  your  miracles 

Of  steel  and  steam  and  straining  mass; 

And  yet  shall  see  your  builders  mould 
A  finer  temple  e'er  you  pass  .  .  . 

You,  having  brothers  in  all  lands, 
Shall  teach  to  all  lands  brotherhood; 

And  Labour,  welding  brain  to  hands, 
Shall  win  the  mighty  to  the  good. 

And  on  some  far-off  silent  day 

A  thinker  gazing  on  a  hill, 
Shall  cast  his  staff  and  horn  away 

And  answer  to  your  clamouring  will ; 

He  shall  bring  back  the  faded  bays, 
The  graces  to  their  ancient  rule, 

The  harper  to  the  market-place, 
The  genius  nearer  to  the  fool. 


THE  LOOM-GIRL 

TT^AR  among  the  fields 
•*•      White  with  carrot-bloom, 
She  walked  by  my  side 
Dreaming  of  her  loom, 

Her  loom  that  ever  called  her, 

Ruthlessly,  and  she 
Was  dumb  in  the  starlight 

And  dumb  by  the  sea. 

Far  among  the  sand-dunes, 
Green  with  waving  grass, 

She  walked  by  my  side 
A  dream-lost  lass. 

But  deaf  amid  the  stir 
And  the  dust  of  the  loom, 

She  thinks  of  the  sands, 
And  the  wild  carrot-bloom. 
72 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MEN  AND  GOD 

FROM  age  to  age  the  spirits  wage 
Their  endless  strife  with  God, 
The  spirits  that  are  brave  and  strong 
And  will  not  stoop  nor  plod. 

From  age  to  age  the  spirits  lose, 

For  God  lifts  high  his  Hell 
And  strikes  their  struggling  arms  to  earth 

And  scatters  them  pell  mell. 

Men  have  but  two  hands  and  a  brain 

And  wills  that  often  veer ; 
God  stands  upon  the  topmost  plain 

And  wields  the  sword  of  fear. 

God  owns  the  cops  and  teeming  shops 

And  drives  the  motor  cars ; 
But  hungry  men  still  mock  his  power 

As  deserts  mock  the  stars. 
73 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MEN  AND  GOD 

From  age  to  age  do  stricken  men, 

Who  yet  shirk  not  to  be, 
Withstand  the  onslaughts  of  their  God 

As  rocks  withstand  the  sea. 


74 


FRANCES 

I   WILL  love  you,  sir,  a  little, 
But  you  can't  expect  me  long 
To  sit  here  idly  listening 
To  the  negro-singer's  song. 

I  have  felt  a  touch  of  sadness, 
For  the  talk  is  running  low, 

And  night  soon  turns  to  morning 
When  the  women  rise  to  go.  .  . 

I  will  love  you,  sir,  a  little, 
But  with  laughter  not  at  all ; 

To-morrow  I  must  waken 
To  another  carnival. 


75 


THE  WORKER 

CHE  sits  where  piles  of  britches 
^  Shut  in  the  poisoned  air, 
While  you  are  at  the  beaches, 
And  I  am  at  the  Fair. 


76 


THE  STRIP  OF  RIVER 

UP  in  this  tower  tall  and  new, 
I  do  not  feel  the  call  of  you, 
My  hands  keep  flying  here  and  there 
Like  shuttle-cocks  in  the  crisp  air; 
I  think  of  foolish  things  I  do 
And  do  not  feel  the  call  of  you. 

Up  in  this  tower  tall  and  new, 

I  turn  and  see  a  strip  of  blue 

Far  off  between  the  stony  hills, 

Where  one  small  sail  leans  round  and  fills; 

There  hovers  like  a  mighty  bird 
The  smoke  above  the  turgid  herd 
Of  great  and  little  boats  that  sing 
Their  love-songs  to  the  sea  and  fling 
The  light-shot  spray  like  silver  hail  .  .  . 
You  fill  me  then  as  wind  the  sail. 


77 


GOLD 

THE  mountains  fashioned,  for  a  drug  to  sway 
Earth's  brawny  sons  from  visions  of  the  skies, 
A  gleaming  metal  that  the  living  slay 

To  win,  and  dead  men  wear  upon  their  eyes. 

I  thank  them  for  it  —  that  one  day  we  woke 
And  walked  the  streets  too  desperate  to  will 

Our  footsteps,  and  then  laughing  quick,  you  broke 
Our  last  ten  cents  to  buy  a  daffodil! 


OLD  YOUTH 


THE  DAUGHTER 

AND  I  will  not  have  anything,  not  anything  of  thee, 
Though  all  the  days  be  longer  than  the  long  lines 

of  the  sea, 

And  I  will  lay  no  healing  kiss  upon  thy  haggard  brow, 
For  I  came  out  from  nothing  and  a  little  broken  vow. 

The  sea  all  fain  is  of  the  sun,  out  from  the  ragged 

lands, 
And  though  they  part  and  shatter  faith,  the  grey  wind 

understands 
The  sun  has  loved  the  sea  too  much  and  loving  is  too 

sore 
To  make  a  little  plaything  of  and  leave  it  on  the  shore. 

And  I  will  have  no  ready  kiss  to  heal  a  broken  vow 
For  all  the  winds  forgot  to  sing  a  year  and  twenty  now, 
Forgot  to  sing  the  tidings  of  a  love  that  had  a  day 
And  left  a  little  plaything  for  the  sea  to  take  away. 


81 


SONG  FOR  THE  LITTLE  MISTRESS 

BREATH  of  little  zephyr  bells 
On  the  night  air, 
Do  you  bring  me  tiding? 
Do  you  bring  me  tiding? 
Moonbeam  washing  all  the  grass, 
You  who  washed  her  hair, 
Is  my  true  love  hiding? 
Oh,  where  is  she  hiding? 

She  could  not  have  gone  to  war, 
She  was  far  too  weak  for  that, 
Far  too  small  and  weak  for  that  — 

She  has  not  become  a  star, 
She  was  far  too  meek  for  that, 
Far  too  young  and  meek  for  that! 

Purple  bit  of  slender  grasses 

In  the  tree's  shade, 
Can  you  tell  me  news  of  her? 
Can  you  tell  me  news  of  her? 
82 


SONG  FOR  THE  LITTLE  MISTRESS 

Fire-flies  flitting  here  and  there, 

Seeming  half  afraid, 
Who  is  it  makes  use  of  her  ? 
Who  is  it  makes  use  of  her? 

My  true  love  cannot  be  dead, 
She  was  far  too  soft  for  that, 
Far  too  white  and  soft  for  that.  .  .  . 

Ah,  she  laid  her  in  her  bed, 
They  bore  her  aloft  for  that, 
They  bore  her  aloft  for  that! 


THE  MOON'S  BETRAYAL 

T  N  my  garden 
•••  The  grey  bird  weeps, 
Crying  for  pardon 
The  grey  bird  sleeps. 

Over  the  hedge 

The  slender  moon 
That  heard  her  pledge 

Broken  so  soon, 

Is  cold,  is  cold, 

And  his  pale  heart  sorrows 
With  grief  untold 

For  his  loveless  morrows. 


In  my  garden 

The  grey  bird  longs, 
Her  eyes  ask  pardon 

To  break  her  thongs. 

s\ 


THE  MOON'S  BETRAYAL 

But  the  moon,  her  lover, 

Her  virgin  lord, 
Shines  cold  above  her 

And  speaks  no  word. 

Ah,  little  grey  bird 

E'er  the  dawn-star  shine, 
The  moon  shall  have  heard 

Your  prayers  and  mine. 

Ah,  little  grey  bird 
The  moon  will  pardon 

Our  grief-sweet  loves 
In  the  moonlit  garden. 

And  whiter  than  moonbeams 
That  over  you  shake  — 

White  bird,  white  bird 
You  shall  awake! 


THE  SILENT  PLACE 

OVER  the  eaves  the  milky  way, 
Over  the  portico  the  white  moon, 
Night's  a  masquerade  of  day 
And  February  walks  with  June. 

Cold  the  stone  against  my  cheek, 

Cold  in  the  moon  against  my  side  .  .  . 

He  has  a  bride  is  chaste  and  meek 
Who  has  Silence  for  a  bride. 

So  gentle  are  her  fingertips 

I  scarce  can  feel  them  on  my  brow, 

So  faint  the  pressure  of  her  lips 

They  kiss  and  leave  me  wondering  how. 

Like  votive  youths  the  hedgerows  stand : 
Their  tops  are  talking  with  the  stars ; 

The  city's  rumble  caravanned 

Never  their  endless  converse  mars. 


86 


THE  SILENT  PLACE 

Alone  amid  the  garden  there 

I  kiss  the  lips  and  slumbrous  eyes 

Of  Silence  and  the  folded  hair 

Of  Silence  —  she  whose  sole  replies 

Are  odours  and  unutterable 
Low  melodies,  unsaid  desires, 

Songs  of  a  beauty  wrought  too  well 
From  too  exquisitely  tuned  lyres. 


THE  MELODY 

"T\EATH  is  a  melody 
••^    I  love  to  sing, 
Death  is  a  grey  bird 
With  a  bright  wing! 

Let  me  wear  colours  gay 

During  life's  spell, 
Let  me  wear  Death,  a  flower, 

In  my  lapel ! 

Death  is  a  classic  mould 
Grave  Grecian  gourd  — 

Let  me  be  melted 
And  into  it  poured ! 


88 


TO  J.  S.  P. 
I.    THE  DEAD  SINGER 

SOFTLY  give  heed  — 
His  love  has  taken  wings, 
Of  earthly  things 

He  had  but  little  need. 

The  lips  now  mute 

Sang  freely  from  his  heart, 
His  was  an  art 

Sprung  from  the  Attic  lute. 

What  slender  fetter 

Hung  his  brief  life  upon? 

Would  he  have  gone 

So,  had  it  not  been  better? 

Swiftly  he  passed 

Filling  each  day  from  morn  — 
Did  each  forewarn 

Him  that  they  would  not  last? 
89 


THE  DEAD  SINGER 

Shall  we  not  touch 

Ever  his  hand  again, 
Ever  in  pain 

Or  when  we  love  too  much? 

Where  has  the  light 

Fled  that  was  in  his  eyes  ; 

Have  not  the  skies 

Gained  a  new  star  as  bright? 

Peace,  leave  him  then, 

Foolish  is  singing  now  .  .  . 
He  has  learned  how 

God  makes  the  songs  of  men. 


90 


II.    THE  CORONAL  OF  DUST 

WHY  hast  thou   gone,   O  loving  one,   O   mute! 
Why  hast  thou  gone  who  cannot  sing  or  speak, 
Or  take  my  hand  in  laughter  and  salute  — 

There  were  so  many  things  we  thought  to  seek 

Together  e'er  the  ruddy  springtime  fled ; 

In  eager  youth  to  manhood  we  were  bound, 
The  world  smiled  like  a  fairyland  outspread  — 

And  thou  art  lost,  whom  I  had  scarcely  found! 

The  arduous  days,  the  days  of  town  and  wold 
Whose  hours  like  jewels  wove  a  coronal 

To  crown  the  love  our  hearts  had  learned  to  hold 
As  hand  in  hand  we  sought  the  festival! 

Was  it  so  little  a  love  we  held  so  deep 
And  grasped  so  eagerly  forgetting  death? 

Or  hadst  thou  stranger  songs  to  find  in  sleep? 
Or  did  the  dust  crave  music  of  thy  breath? 


THE  CORONAL  OF  DUST 

I  know  not,  O  Beloved,  I  but  know 
My  days  are  barren  and  I  pass  alone  .  .  . 

I  cannot  come  to  think  thee  better  so, 
Or  know  thee  speechless  as  a  roadside  stone. 


THE  LAST  POET 

THE  planet  slain  by  lyric  pain 
Lay  crushed  against  the  Universe 
And  threw  off  rhyming  molecules 
And  bits  of  quaint  atomic  verse. 

The  winds  that  had  been  torturing 
Its  surface  with  their  flute-like  tones 

Were  hushed  to  hear  the  mountains  sing 
Their  parting  diatessarons. 

The  seas  were  falling  drop  by  drop 
In  vain  revenge  upon  the  sun 

Seeking  to  put  its  glitter  out, 

The  moon  into  a  gold  thread  spun  .  . 

High  up  upon  a  distant  star 
Lolled  sleepy-lidded  Pierrot, 

He  plucked  the  strings  of  his  guitar, 
He  sang  and  turned  his  eyes  below. 


93 


THE  LAST  POET 

"  I  like  to  see  the  people  dead, 
I  thought  it  was  a  merry  din  — 

The  rivers  were  a  lovely  red, 
I  lingered  at  the  death  of  Sin  — 

"  Into  the  sea  I  saw  one  fling 

His  mistress  drunk  with  love  and  wine 
I  do  not  care  for  anything  .  .  . 

/  only  long  for  Columbine." 


94 


THE  ANSWER 

4  '/^RYING  cranes  and  wheeling  crows 
^^   I'll  remember  them,"  she  said ; 
"  And  I  will  be  your  own,  God  knows, 
And  the  sin  be  on  my  head. 

a  I  will  be  your  own  and  glad ; 

Lovers  would  be  fools  to  care 
How  a  thing  is  good  or  bad, 

When  the  sky  is  everywhere  .  .  . 

"  I  will  be  your  own,"  she  said, 

"  Because  your  voice  is  like  the  rain, 

And  your  kiss  is  wine  and  bread 
Better  than  my  father's  grain." 

So  I  took  her  where  she  spoke, 

Breasts  of  snow  and  burning  mouth  . 

Crying  cranes  and  drifting  smoke 
And  the  blackbirds  wheeling  south. 


95 


THREE  WOMEN 


QUIESCENCE 

HOW  can  I  hide  this  from  him, 
How  can  I  smile  all  the  days, 
And  look  into  other  faces 
Because  he  leaves  me  to  do  all  things 
But  one  .  .  . 

I  cannot  trouble  him  with  this  burden  also 

When  the  other  is  his. 

Must  we  be  always  here  together? 

Must  the  days  and  the  nights  go  on  with  him  beside 

me? 

Must  I  watch  him  in  sleep 
When  she  comes  to  his  dreams, 
Waking  a  smile  on  his  lips  ? 

Must  I  be  reverent  before  the  joy  that  is  not  from  me? 
Must  I  sit  here,  helpless, 
Never  daring  to  turn  the  lamp  higher? 

But  the  lamp  would  not  obey  me, 
I  am  not  permitted  even  to  touch  him  .  .  . 

99 


QUIESCENCE 

0  this  is  the  shame  of  all, 

That  I  shall  guard  him  in  his  own, 

And  care  for  the  new  children  of  his  moments, 

As  though  they  were  mine  .  .  . 

Ah  you  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  how  can  I  blame  even  you, 

My  robber! 

Only  me  who  have  done  nothing, 

1  despise  .  .  . 

Would  God  my  love  would  let  go  my  hands 

And  I  might  kill  him, 

Here,  quietly,  in  my  own  bed, 

Him,  whom  my  arms  are  empty  for, 

Here,  beside  me  ...  without  a  kiss! 


100 


E  POI  VIDI  VENIR  DA  LUNGI  AMORE 


1TELL  you  this,  O  my  new  lover  — 
When  you  are  close  to  me 
And  I  am  so  silent; 
When  you  say  troubling  things 
And  I  am  so  silent ; 

When  you  look  so  at  my  throat  and  hair, 
When  you  look  ...  and  look  .  .  . 
It  is  not  because  I  am  stupid 
That  I  am  so  silent. 


II 

The  gowns  of  my  mother,  from  an  old  chest 
I  have  put  on  sometimes, 
Wondering.     O  Impetuous  One, 
Those  lips  and  hands  would  reach  me 
Through  the  coquetry  of  ten  thousand  years! 


101 


E  POI  VI DI  VENIR  DA  LUNGI  A  MO  RE 


in 

Do  you  know 

It  is  only  because  of  you 

That  I  gaze  at  myself  in  the  mornings? 

Do  you  know  that  I  borrow  your  eyes? 

How  I  despise  my  beauty 

Because  of  the  clay  that  binds  it ! 


IV 

I  do  not  want  that  and  that  and  that, 

I  do  not  want  it.  ... 

When  we  were  in  the  meadow 

And  I  saved  the  moth  you  would  have  crushed  — 

See,  it  is  the  same  in  this, 

A  trifle  that  I  must  save. 


I  know  that  you  come 
Thinking  to  make  me  more  happy, 
To  drink  my  draft  of  terror. 
How  can  I  tell  you  that  no  coming  of  yours 
Will  ever  make  me  happy? 
1 02 


E  POI  VI DI  FENIR  DA  LUNGI  A  MO  RE 

VI 

I  will  lose  nothing  by  this; 
The  world  has  been  given  to  me, 
And  it  will  not  be  taken  away. 
I  cannot  pay  to  God  the  dew 
And  the  jessamine, 
No  ...  not  for  all  your  love. 

VII 

How  you  have  dreamed  of  me! 

What  things  you  have  known  with  me 

After  you  have  gone! 

When  you  come  again 

I  see  that  you  have  held  me  in  your  thoughts, 

I  have  been  with  you  like  the  smell  of  geraniums 

After  rain. 

And  I  say,  "  Beloved  .  .  . 

Only  this  is  left  .  .  . 

It  is  so  little  more  that  I  can  give  you." 

VIII 

Ghosts  of  shadows, 
These  are  our  days, 
Ghosts  of  shadows  .  .  . 
I  cannot  touch  them, 
And  they  pass  over  me  but  I  scarcely  move  my  eyelids. 

103 


E  POI  VIDl  VENIR  DA  LUNGI  AMORE 


IX 


O  Courser  .  .  .  come  to  me. 

You  have  the  car  of  golden  cloud; 

It  is  shaped  like  a  willow  leaf, 

And  dipped  toward  me  with  a  promise 

O  Courser,  come  now! 


What  is  my  cruelty  to  you  ?  .  .  . 
Ah,  if  you  but  knew! 
It  is  your  comrade  and  bodyguard ; 
More  than  once  it  has  saved  your  life 
From  the  ugly  spears. 

XI 

You  do  not  know  this, 

That  I  revolt,  I  am  uneasy, 

I  would  see  you  thirst,  and  give  you  other  water 

than  myself; 

I  would  hurt  you  and  laugh  at  you. 
Oh  yes.  ...  If  I  could  find  out  how. 

XII 

How  often  have  I  wished 
That  we  might  trade  garments, 
104 


E  POI  VIDl  VENIR  DA  LUNGI  A  MO  RE 

That  I  might  dress  you  in  my  beauty 
As  I  have  worn  your  strength. 

XIII 

Look  you  into  my  eyes  and  tell  me 

What  you  see  there. 

Do  you  see  the  best  of  all  things  ? 

Do  you  see  pictures  like  the  gladness  of  immortals  ? 

I  fear  you  do  not 

Or  you  would  go  from  me  .  .  . 

You  would  not  love  me  for  the  best  of  all  things. 

XIV 

How  I  have  ridden  and  ridden 

Until  I  am  dizzy, 

On  the  white  way  of  your  thoughts  .  .  . 

Only  I  sometimes  wish  they  would  let  me  go  — 

The  paths  that  always  lead  me  back  to  you. 

xv 

I  did  not  believe  any  one  would  know, 
I  thought  I  had  shut  it  in  here,  securely  .  .  . 
Who  told  the  world  this  morning? 
See  how  they  hide  their  smiles 
When  they  think  I  am  watching. 
105 


E  POI  VIDI  VENIR  DA  LUNGI  A  MORE 

XVI 

I  am  like  my  candle 

Dipping  in  the  wind, 

But  it  never  goes  out  .  .  . 

Ah,  will  you  not  annihilate  me  utterly ! 


106 


SALOME 

THE  fruit  of  that  beauty 
Was  too  heavy  for  my  branch. 
Here  I  lie  flung  upon  the  road 
By  storms  that  came  too  soon. 

I  have  flowered 
And  borne  no  fruit; 
I  have  bled 
And  borne  no  Spring. 

What  was  music  to  me  but  one  voice, 

The  soft  dropping  of  leaves, 

The  rising  of  wind  like  a  blade  at  dark-coming, 

The  snapping  even  of  the  twig  that  bore  me ! 

0  dim  far  wine  of  the  sky, 

1  have  ripened  under  you, 

I  have  decayed  under  you-  .  .  . 
I  shall  sleep  under  you. 


107 


EBB  SAND  AND  STARS 


EBB  SAND  AND  STARS 


FROM  that  last  touch  of  fingers 
The  broken  wire, 
The  message  suspended 
Over  a  desert  of  rain. 


II 

Peace  ...  go, 
And  in  strange  places, 
Unexpected  turns, 
You  will  find  me. 


Ill 

Unforgotten  ? 
Unremembered  ? 
Does  the  river  forget  light 
Or  remember  flowing? 

in 


EBB  SAND  AND  STARS 

IV 

Here, 

There  will  be  sounds  always 
Of  music  beginning  .  .  . 
Born  of  that  anguish. 


Better  to  bless 
Those  steeps  of  yourself, 
Those  flowered  valleys, 
With  new  grass. 

VI 

Peace  ...  go  ... 

Ah  no  ...  come  closer. 

Yes  ...  go, 

You  cannot  help  come  closer. 

VII 

Ebb  sand  and  stars, 
These  be  the  healing  mutes  .  .  . 
Beaten  down  are  the  sounds  of  the  sea, 
And  I  am  alone  .  .  . 
112 


EBB  SAND  AND  STARS 


VIII 


The  tree  will  whisper, 
The  window  laugh, 
The  room  hold  me  .  . 
Trying  to  displace  you. 


IX 


Yes,  the  wheat  and  the  tares, 
The  able  and  pitiable  things  .  . 
The  sky  of  my  memory  of  you 
Floods  them  all. 


I  would  go  deeper 

But  I  fear  to  tread  the  earth  there, 

I  fear  that  crust. 

There  is  all  hell  beneath  it. 


XI 

And  the  nights, 

They  will  be  filled  with  lines, 
That  vainly  try  to  express  longing, 
While  the  wind  flaps  a  shutter. 


EBB  SAND  AND  STARS 

XII 

O  temple  bells! 

O  far  Japan  of  that  verandah ! 

Such  grief  will  come 

From  a  spiral  vine  with  flowers  .  . 

XIII 

The  sumach  will  follow  you, 
The  plum-bloom  and  redbud, 
And  the  flowers  of  another  summer 
But  I  shall  not  feel  good-bye. 

XIV 

These  things  that  I  say 

They  will  be  as  nothing 

They  will  be  as  dead  grass 

They  will  be  burnt  up  with  flame. 


THE    END 


114 


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